9. Chapter Nine: Luka

Ravage is different from Cesse. For one, the pieces are dissimilar. Scholars have been replaced with soldiers, students with pawns. The only three constants are the kings, queens, and assassins.

It takes Luka the first dozen moves to understand the slight variations to the rules and patterns, but he quickly settles in. This is a kingdom of defined rules and infinite control. This is his place of calm.

However… the messages in the movement of the pieces and the strategy of attack has to be different. Luka’s eyes widen as Wolf-Born moves his steed to block Luka’s pawn. Ordinarily, this would be an extremely sexual declaration – one that has to do with mounting their opponent like a dog. Luka often made the move while maintaining eye contact to make it clear he understood his actions completely and that the promise would be fulfilled, though he would always struggle not to blush while doing so.

But Wolf-Born’s attention remains fixed on the board as he adjusts the piece, already moving on to his next attack.

Luka swallows, hesitating. Perhaps things are different with Ravage. Kiterans are supposed to be simple-minded. Maybe there is no meaning behind the moves at all. Still, he takes his time before attacking with his assassin. After, he wipes his palms on his clean trousers, grateful Octavian gave him a new pair to change into last evening.

Wolf-Born sits back as he assesses the board. There are only a scant few seconds when Wolf-Born is not watching him, amber eyes taking in Luka’s every move, every breath. Luka savors the time left unobserved. He savors the heartbeats in which he can… admire his captor.

Wolf-Born is beautiful. This is an undeniable statement, like saying the sky is blue, Cesse is perfect, or thought should be rational. His golden locks have been tamed into a rough braid that skims his shoulders, and his features are blade-like; his nose a once-broken arch, his lips soft, plump, and a gentle pink that contradicts the coldness in his brown eyes. His hands are large and veined, soft golden hair trailing down his corded forearms as he moves his next piece into place.

And his smell…

It took Luka approximately two and a half seconds upon meeting Wolf-Born for him to realize this man is the source of that delightful scent that has been haunting Luka since his capture. The smell that feels like home and warmth and the comfort of a soft bed beneath a tired body all rolled into one inhale.

Luka also came to the startling conclusion that Wolf-Born’s scent cannot be a coincidence; Luka has to be under the influence of some sort of drug. Or he is just simply too exhausted from his captivity. Why else would he have reacted like… that when he had seen the blood of his enemy? Why did he feel himself bending and breaking as he watched his own hands wound this man?

“Well?”

Luka jerks back to attention. His teeth sink into his lip and he internally curses. He never loses concentration in a Cesse game. What is this man doing to him?

Wolf-Born raises a brow, bracing ridiculously broad shoulders. He is such a large man, easily dwarfing Luka’s more delicate frame. He props his chin on his hand again, spreading his legs wide. Luka wishes he would stop doing that, but he’s starting to suspect the man’s shadowy robes and lack of pants is probably some kind of tactic.

Luka summons his willpower and makes his next move. The piece clinks softly as he places it on a red square.

Wolf-Born’s heavy gaze lifts from Luka to the board and his eyes widen. He goes so still, tension creeps into Luka once again.

Beauty aside, Wolf-Born is also terrifying. Huge, obviously intelligent. Worst of all – his beast is so close to the surface, Luka sometimes imagines he can catch glimpses of it stalking beneath Wolf-Born’s honey gaze. Every time the monster peers out from the man’s human eyes, Luka cannot help but to freeze, like a mouse spotted by a hawk.

But I am no mouse.

Like now, as Wolf-Born observes the board, shoulders taut, Luka reminds himself he is not helpless. He is just undercover.

All he has to do is hold out; his mother will look for him once he’s discovered missing. The headlines for a vanished son overshadowing her big day of rallying for a Council Member position will not be favorable. It will take no time to discover why he had gone – the enemy is camped right on their doorstep.

And it is impossible for her to have forgotten the spot where Luka left his note.

No, once she discovers he’s being held captive, he just needs to wait for her plan to arrive. Then he can work on escape.

And for now?

Luka moves his next piece, victory solidifying before him. “Check.” He keeps his expression carefully neutral so Wolf-Born cannot see his triumph shining through. He only hopes the man’s beastly nose won’t catch a single whiff of joy.

Wolf-Born’s expression darkens as Luka’s snare tightens. It takes another dozen moves – the man will not go quietly – but as the tent goes dark, Wolf-Born finally looks up. He speaks the word like a threat – like a promise, “Mate.”

Luka releases a slow, steady exhale, barely able to remove his eyes from the threat sitting across from him to take in the board – the battlefield – below. His body is automatically tensing with anticipation – nervousness – to take Wolf-Born, before he reminds himself they have played for an entirely different kind of dominance. Luka extinguishes the smile before it can bloom on his face. Inappropriate, he chides himself. He should never let himself enjoy playing with the enemy.

“You are the best of your generation,” Wolf-Born says. It’s not a question, but when Luka looks up, Wolf-Born arcs his brows as if expecting a response.

“That can be your question,” Luka says. “If you win a game.”

Wolf-Born’s scowl deepens. “Ask then so we can move on to the next match.”

Their next match? Luka’s pulse flutters at the thought, though he is unsure if it is anticipation or fear that kicks his heart into overdrive. He wets his lips. He has been so focused on victory, he hadn’t set aside the time to contemplate what he would do with it once won.

This is why, he tells himself, the question that slips out of him is so foolish.

“What is your name?” Luka asks.

Wolf-Born blinks. “My… name?”

Luka inwardly curses; he could have asked anything. He could have asked this man’s greatest weakness, what he wishes to accomplish with this attack, if he plans to use the great minds of Siacchi and Cesscounthe or if he just plans to destroy – but instead he asks his name.

Wolf-Born shifts his weight. He leans forward as he returns the pieces to their original positions. Luka does the same, careful to avoid brushing the other man’s hands.

“Theodori.”

Luka jumps despite himself. “Theodori?”

“My name is Theodori. Theodori Hunter Wolf-Born.”

Theodori. Luka rolls the name across his tongue as he gazes up through his lashes at the man. The name is shockingly soft for a beast like this. It seems like the kind of thing a lover would whisper while tucking a stray lock of blond hair behind an ear –

Luka shakes the ridiculous thought away. That is your enemy. “Shall we swap colors so you can make the first move?”

“I don’t need that sort of advantage.”

Luka manages to smother his scoff. He sinks into the sweet embrace of the game once more. All his fears fall away as he plays. He forgets who his opponent is, the direness of the situation. He forgets he is here as a prisoner, as an information gatherer.

Instead, he plays with a slight smile on his face. Never before has he found a partner more creative, more interesting – more challenging.

They are halfway through their third match (both victories having fallen to Luka. His second question being “What is your goal with Cesscounthe’s siege?” and Theodori’s cold answer “Victory and acknowledgement”), when Octavian enters the tent.

He sweeps inside with an oil lantern in hand. The light is blinding against the darkness, and both Luka and Theodori squint.

“I told you to leave him alive,” Octavian begins with a smile. The expression drops away when he sees the board spread out between them, the pieces in midplay. He blinks, face going carefully blank.

“Scholar,” Theodori says, looking up from the particularly tricky play. He has braced his hand on his chin for so long now, his fingers have left impressions on his face. Luka’s cheeks warm as Octavian takes in the situation of the board, wondering if the other Kiteran understands the messages Luka has left there. “Did I say you could interrupt us?”

“It’s getting late, Sevell Hunter,” Octavian says. “I just assumed –”

“Assumed?” Theodori’s eyes narrow.

Before Theodori could continue, Luka’s stomach releases an ear splitting grumble. He claps his hand over the noise as if to stifle it, the heat in his cheeks increasing to a burn. Hunger suddenly rips through him. He has been so distracted by the game, he hadn’t even noticed.

Theodori sighs. “Fine. Take him and feed him. Make sure he receives enough. He’s much too small.”

Luka shoots the man a glance, self-consciously running his hands over his thighs. He is undoubtedly slender, though Xyla never found any grounds for complaint. But Theodori’s attention is resolutely focused on Octavian. As if sensing Luka’s beseeching stare, he waves his hand dismissively.

“I will see him fed then,” Octavian says, lip curled. He looks between the two of them, brow furrowing. A strange mixture of emotions play out across his face, moving so quickly Luka has trouble distinguishing one from another – anger, frustration, and… envy?

Octavian seizes Luka by the arm and forces him to his feet, jerking Luka from his thoughts. Luka’s legs stagger beneath him, doe-weak from having sat for so long. Theodori’s shoulders tense, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he watches from the corner of his eye, but he remains silent as Octavian directs Luka from his tent.

“Bring him to me again tomorrow,” Theodori says as they both exit. “I am not done with him yet.”

Luka’s stomach tightens at the words, but he immediately grits out the strange wriggles of excitement that bloom at the thought of continuing the match. Ravage might be different from Cesse, but its pull is just as magnetizing.

That, and the fact that Luka’s captor cannot read the messages that Luka has left him amongst the pieces. The outlet for Luka’s anger at his captivity and his frustration at the way he has been held prisoner, is the only reason Luka can remain calm as Octavian forces him out into the – evening?

It’s evening?

Luka’s bewilderment must be obvious, for Octavian says drily, “You’ve both been at it for nearly ten hours. I thought he had flayed all your skin from your flesh, yet you’re still… in one piece.” The Kiteran looks Luka over, nostrils flaring, as if searching for any sign of injury. Finding none, he jerks away, scowling.

What had been Wolf-Born’s goal with that game, exactly? He had not drawn out any additional information from Luka – not to Luka’s knowledge. If anything, Luka learned more from him. And yet, Theodori still requested Luka return the following day.

Unbidden, Luka’s thoughts cast back to the way Theodori looked while they had played; the slight curl to his lips, the drum of his long fingers on a lean thigh, the inclination of his body, as if he was being pulled closer to the Ravage board. The picture of a man enraptured by the game. Luka only recognized it so easily because he has seen it so many times before – in himself.

But the leader of the Kiteran’s military forces wouldn’t simply allow himself to give in to the base pleasures of a game – no matter how sacred – above conquering. Especially not when all his people cared about were physical victories.

So what is his angle? What am I missing?

“What did you speak of?” Octavian asks as he directs Luka through the camp swiftly. In twilight, the tents have turned to fireflies, glowing with golden light from within. Kiteran soldiers roam, long hair flowing over their shoulders, crimped from a day of being bound in tight braids. Smoke and the smell of cooked meat hangs on the cool autumn wind, and Luka’s stomach growls again as the taste of sweet-fried pork fills his mouth.

Luka shakes his head. “Ravage.”

“Ravage?” Octavian’s brows draw together. “Did he ask you questions?”

Luka directs his gaze to his boots. “He didn’t get the chance to.”

Though he cannot see Octavian’s face, the man’s frustrated exhale released through gritted teeth is more than enough to convey his captor’s anger. Luka hides a smile. Obviously some miscommunication took place here.

What a perfect time to sow discontent.

Luka looks up at Octavian through his lashes. “Are you going to give me another task tonight?”

Octavian huffs and jerks to a halt as they arrive at Luka’s tent. He shoves Luka inside. “Not tonight,” he growls, fur rippling down his arms. Luka is proud of the way he hides the fear that shoots through him at the sight. Octavian crosses his arms as he stands at the threshold of the tent, gnawing on his lip. His gaze drifts about the tent, and then the knot in his brows loosens.

“You need to prove your use to us,” Octavian says in a low voice. “If you do not –”

Perhaps it is because Luka is tired from hours of playing, and that is what emboldens his tongue when he speaks. “You’ll kill me. Yes, I understand. Was the map I made not enough? Give me another task. I’ll prove my worth again and again. Killing me would be your loss.”

His words are oil to the fire of Octavian’s anger. The man’s shoulders rise around his ears, eyes flashing ice-blue as his beast fights to the surface. Luka draws back into the shadows of the tent, bumping into the writing desk. His fingers scramble behind him as if they are trying to flee, landing on the charcoal sharpener.

But Octavian exhales. It’s like he forces all of the anger out of him with a breath. “We’ll see,” he says in an even voice that scares Luka more than his rage. “But you should know there are worse things than death, little Siacchian. Speak to me like that again and you will learn them.”

He moves to close the flap of the tent. “My food?” Luka says. His words emerge in a croak, strangled by fear. His hands curl around the charcoal sharpener, pressing the tip against his fingertips, angered by the sound of his weakness.

“Maybe a little hunger will teach you to hold your tongue,” Octavian says. The tent flap slaps against the canvas walls as he lets it swing shut, storming away.

Luka waits another long minute, staring at the entrance, charcoal sharpener pressed so hard against his thumb, warm blood wells against the writing desk. When only the faint noises of the Kiteran camp seep through the tent’s walls – flickering fire, distant laughter, boots crunching over autumn leaves – he allows himself to relax. With a sigh, he sinks to his knees.

His heart pounds at his ears and he closes his eyes, recounting everything he has seen and heard. Any sign of weakness – anything he could give to Cesscounthe to use against their enemy upon his escape.

The first place his thoughts yank him is Theodori’s wan smile as Luka wins his second game, as if the Kiteran was anticipating his own loss. As if he was awaiting Luka’s second question. Then, his mind serves up the image of Theodori turning away as Luka is pulled from the tent, as if he cannot even bear to look upon Luka’s face.

Luka’s stomach grumbles as he shakes the thoughts away.

They are unorganized. Leadership unaligned.

That, and Theo recalls how the soldiers have spoken of Theodori – compared with how they speak to Octavian.

Soldiers respect Octavian. They fear Theodori.

To win, Cesscounthe only needs to separate Theodori from Octavian. They would lead too differently, plans canceled out by their own allies.

But this isn’t enough – Luka needs more.

And he needs to know he has a lifeline – a way out. He needs to know his mother will come back for him and the information Luka carries.

A shudder shakes him at the thought of being trapped here without help, without any sign of escape. Stifling fear wells in his throat. Wetness swims before his eyelashes, vision blurring.

No. No. He can’t fall apart now.

Despite himself, he reaches again for the charcoal sharpener. The tip is still wet from his blood. It’s not a knife or a sword, merely a writing tool. He isn’t giving into any beastly impulses by cradling it in his hands because it isn’t a weapon.

And yet, he still feels safer pressing it to his chest, just as he would with the Cesse king as a child, bruised and battered from his lessons. Both represent shields; the Cesse piece promised escape – and the charcoal sharpener? Though not a weapon, it promised a bite of pain should Octavian decide it best Luka be punished.

Later, Luka will think it is a good thing that he fell asleep there, leaning against the writing desk, chin tucked against his chest, because even unconscious he still grips his charcoal sharpener in his left hand. For sometime into the night, something enters the tent.

Luka’s lids flutter, not fully comprehending. Weak light filters through the tent’s walls, turning the folded bedroll into a mountain and the intruder into a monster –

Intruder?

Monster?

Animal tension seizes him, his heartbeat jackrabbiting to a roar. Rapid breaths rake out of his mouth as Luka tracks the thing in his tent – a thing, not a human.

Huge, it hunches to fit in Luka’s enclosure. Its breath stinks of meat.

An impyassus.

Before his capture, Luka has only seen one in its beast form once before as a young child. In the heart of Cesscounthe, a dozen Aiutani impyassi turned against their people and unleashed their beastly urges against those of pure thought. Three died before properly aligned Aiutani restrained their wretched brethren. Luka remembers little of the incident itself, though he had been in the heart of it all – as had his mother.

After, Linne declared in a low hissing breath she would save Cesscounthe from these monsters. She would see them safe from their curse – finally. Her nails had dug into her skin, eyes tawny in the light as she had stared out the scene, taking in the white sheets laid over the bodies of the fallen.

And the beast – the last one left alive, still trapped in its uncontrollable animal form – had towered above its human handlers. Blood seeped from its amber hide, glassy eyes rolling about in its skull while reddened teeth bulged in a snarl. Luka hadn’t even been able to cry at the sight. He had frozen, staring at the monster.

At the thing he knew was locked inside of him. The thing that could never be allowed to escape.

But this impyassus towering before him now is larger than any monster Luka has ever seen before, made all the more huge by the darkness as it looms over him. It bristles with dark fur. Hand-length fangs glisten as its lips curl into a snarl.

Its head swings toward Luka, eyes catching in the dim light. An enormous jaw unhinges. A whine escapes Luka’s throat.

A low growl creeps through the tent. The monster tenses, muscles bunching.

Thoughts flash through Luka’s mind, clouded and twisted with fear. He struggles for an idea, a plan – something, anything – he can’t die here! He has to escape. He has to share his findings with his people. He has to stop these Kiterans from taking his country.

A thin sheet of icy calm rolls across his panic as Luka stares death in the mouth.

It’s going to jump.

It’s going to eat me.

Luka’s grip tightens on the charcoal sharpener in his hand. Not a weapon. A tool.

The only way for him to survive.

The impyassus lunges and Luka throws himself aside. The beast crashes into the writing desk, a thunderclap against the night’s tense silence. Luka whips his charcoal sharpener around. He will have to aim for the soft bits – the eyes, the nose – anything less, and he will do no damage whatsoever.

He braces himself, spreading his feet. His hands shake as he braces his makeshift tool in front of him, awaiting the next attack.

But as the beast wheels around, growl leaking from its lips, it pauses. No – it freezes. Its eyes, wide pools of brown so dark they look black, go so huge, Luka can see the white beneath. In a blink, its posture changes from bristling to hunched.

Behind him, the sound of tearing fabric rends the air, but Luka can’t look away. He blinks in confusion as fear fills the tent. The impyassus is staring right at him, so why –

A deep, earth-shaking growl rolls out behind Luka. Blood curdling, it draws goosebumps to Luka’s arms and shudders down his spine. Despite the fear pounding through his veins, a strange scent fills his nose, dropping his pulse a notch – though Luka hardly notices as a terrifying thought rings through him.

There’s another impyassus behind me.

The thought is as painful as a bite, and Luka slowly forces himself to turn, careful so he doesn’t leave his back facing the other beast. His charcoal sharpener sways in the breeze unleashed by the raw opening in the tent flap, where the new impyassus has clawed a gaping entrance.

Dimly, Luka becomes aware his mouth is making a low keening noise. He seals his lips to silence himself, slowly dropping to a crouch, unsure if he should even bother with his silly charcoal sharpener or if he’s better off running.

Never run, a voice that sounds like his father’s rings through his head. The memory of Luka’s first and only fox hunt rips through him with sudden clarity; the bright red fur of the creatures as they turned to flee and Carlo’s face as he leveled his gun to take aim.

“Never run,” his father had said. “Prey running will trigger the predator.”

But oh, how Luka wants to run now.

The second impyassus growls again, the noise reverberating through Luka’s ribcage. It’s even larger than the monster that has broken into Luka’s tent, with creamy fur and deep amber eyes – wait.

Luka looks closer at the creature and his mouth goes dry. He suddenly becomes aware of the scent in the air – the more he breathes the smell, the calmer his heart becomes.

He knows this scent. Knows it because it belongs to Theodori Hunter Wolf-Born.

And despite himself, despite the terror and the charcoal sharpener Luka has rebelliously clutched in his hand, relief crests through him.

He might just make it through this night in one piece.

He chases the treacherous feeling away – his sworn enemy is not his savior – but he cannot help the tiny smile that breaks across his face or the tears that well at the corners of his eyes.

And it is through blurred vision that Luka dimly makes out the other impyassus lowering itself once more – not in a supplicatory manner, but in a tensing of muscles. In preparation to charge.

Theodori grunts and throws himself toward Luka – to shove him clear of the line of fire or to act as a shield, Luka is unsure. All that he knows is that one minute, he’s weakly smiling up at the monster who is his captor and the next – his world becomes fur and darkness.